


We Could Lie and Call it a Game

by dearxalchemist



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Competition, Competitive Behavior, F/M, Multi, OT3, Post-Mission, Prompt Fill, Sexual Humor, Snuggling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-27 10:06:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10004729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearxalchemist/pseuds/dearxalchemist
Summary: It’s no different in London where they wait out their next mission, Gaby and Illya have taken up a small bit of domesticity, spending their last few hours in her flat. Napoleon has bugged it and so has Illya. Gaby probably knows the latter, if she knew the former he would have a cherry red hand print across his face.“You don’t think he knows do you?” Gaby’s breathless tone comes through the bug in a burst of static. Napoleon smirks against the rim of his glass before letting his head fall back against the wall, waiting for Illya to reassure her — waiting for their kissing to resume.“Of course not,” Illya’s voice is gruff, thick with his accent and then she does something that makes his breath catch.





	

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt fill for Gallyakink:** The discussion of "turtlenecks" on or off certain gentlemen made me want an ot3 where Illya and Gaby are fascinated by Napoleon's, ah, cultural differences. Bonus points if Gaby plays up their long-standing competitive feud by trying to determine which way feels best!

To be fair, they aren’t very subtle about sleeping together. 

Hand prints are visible on the frosted glass of the hotel shower, the walls are never thick enough, and do not disturb signs only go so far. There’s also the fact that Gaby’s underwear is conveniently always missing from under her short dresses, made more and more noticeable with every mission. Every time Napoleon pulls her from gunfire, he’s gifted with the sight of pink flesh and warm thighs. Once or twice his hand has drifted, and once or twice her elbow has found his ribs. But she’s never cried _Uncle!_

No, she only calls that when Illya and her _think_ they’ve successfully evaded him. Napoleon doesn’t have the heart to tell them he’s gotten better at bugging, that the two of them are never far from his protection. After two years of being on a team together, he’s become fond of them. They’re more than partners, closer than family. They are all he has left besides the ever short leash of the American CIA and the patronizing voice of Alexander Waverly in between countless missions. He never steers far from them. Simply presses his back to the thin walls and nurses a glass of something expensive, ignoring the lonely sensation that settles in his own room. 

It’s no different in London where they wait out their next mission, Gaby and Illya have taken up a small bit of domesticity, spending their last few hours in her flat. Napoleon has bugged it and so has Illya. Gaby probably knows the latter, if she knew the former he would have a cherry red hand print across his face. 

“You don’t think he knows do you?” Gaby’s breathless tone comes through the bug in a burst of static. Napoleon smirks against the rim of his glass before letting his head fall back against the wall, waiting for Illya to reassure her — waiting for their kissing to resume.

“Of course not,” Illya’s voice is gruff, thick with his accent and then she does something that makes his breath catch.

“If he did, he would join us.” Gaby’s voice seemed further away, playful and laced with static. There’s the distinct sound of skin slapping skin and Gaby gives the smallest of yelps.

“Another time Chop Shop.” 

Napoleon squeezes his glass and listens to the rest of their time together before losing himself in their passionate voices, spilling into his hand and cleaning himself up like a gentleman would, going to an empty bed for the night in his own home.

\----

They get called into London only to receive papers to Sydney, where Gaby is all too happy to wear the sun dresses that Illya takes the time to pick out. They’re all short strappy numbers that are meant to entice and distract the mark who is an unfaithful lush with an exporting business that focuses on rare and expensive works of art, exchanging them for cheap forgeries and stolen cash. Their mission starts on a Wednesday and ends sometime on a Sunday, just in time for Gaby to stretch out in a warm slab of sunshine that cuts across the balcony overlooking the hotel’s massive greenery. 

Waverly charts them a plane for Tuesday, leaving them to their covers and own devices in the meantime. Gaby wears a golden band on her finger, Napoleon has the matching one and an obnoxious southern drawl that pains Illya —their bodyguard. They play rich Texan oil socialites, over-tipping the hotel staff for privacy and extra booze and Gaby pretends to be bored with her husband just to have Illya rub oil across her back while she bakes in the heat of the Australian sun. 

Illya stays close, just never in the direct line of the sun. He holds a small novel with a worn cover and dog-eared pages in his hands. He only turns the page every few minutes. Most of the time his eyes lay on the woman rolling onto her back and stretching slowly into the light like a cat. 

“Interesting book?” Napoleon breaks the silence. Illya stiffens in his chair before glaring over the edge of the novel to the American. 

“Is okay.” It’s the only answer he gives as Napoleon actively plays with the gold band on his finger, twisting it back and forth slowly.

“Darling, I need a drink.” Gaby calls out and Illya moves to get up but Napoleon beats him to it. He stands and lays on a thick southern charm. Honeyed voice and over-friendly smile, staring at Gaby as if she hung all the stars in the sky with a flick of her wrist. 

“Comin’ right up.” He leaves them on the balcony to play with the drink cart, using extra ice and a heavy hand on the gin. He comes back to give Gaby the glass, making a loud declaration as he covers her hand with his. “One ice cold drink for my beautiful bride.” 

“Tch,” Illya scoffs, and Gaby grins, swallowing down a third of the drink. 

She smacks her lips and winks over her oversized sunglasses. “Thank you.” She makes a soft kissing noise, and Illya stands, nearly knocking his chair over in the movement. 

Napoleon turns his head over and sheds his suit coat, dropping it next to Gaby’s chair. He stands tall in his white shirt, unbuttoning it in a slow manner as he goes for his belt next. “Problem Peril?” 

“Put your clothes back on,” Illya growls. “Quit leering at her she is not your wife.” Illya stalks forward like a predator. He’s all long legs and heavy steps, wrapping a hand around Napoleon’s arm and dragging it up to wave the golden ring in his face. “This is not real!”

“That’s right, because you two are.” Napoleon gives Illya a charming smile and Gaby gapes for a moment, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. 

“No.” Gaby shakes her head, but Illya’s face says it all. He can’t mask the shock that Napoleon brings out in him. Their little affair is not so secret anymore and she swallows hard because this could mean the end of them. 

“But what you two have, it’s real isn’t it? It may have started as pretend —” Napoleon wiggles his fingers once more in front of Illya’s face, catching the light with his fake wedding ring. 

“Yes.” Gaby stands up now, grabbing at the strings of her sundress she has unlaced to rid herself of excess tanlines. She wedges herself between the two of them, warm supple skin brushing between both. Gaby wraps her hand around both of theirs, pushing their fists down, making Illya release Napoleon. “Yes.” 

It’s Illya’s turn to gape now. His blue eyes go a little wide and his jaw goes slack, he doesn’t have any words. There’s just a soft rush of air from his lungs and he deflates, his fingers falling to her oil slicked shoulder, he lowers his gaze, golden lashes blocking him out from the world as Gaby backs up into him, putting more space between them and Napoleon.

“Yes, what Illya and I have, it’s real.” She doesn’t look back at Illya, instead she keeps her gaze on Napoleon. “And we know you listen.”

Napoleon doesn’t gape at her confession, he doesn’t even look embarrassed. Part of her wishes his feathers would be ruffled. 

“And listen.”

“Like a fox,” Illya chimes but Gaby shushes him, smacking his chest with the back of her hand, knuckles tapping a soft rhythm in her wake.

“You want us too.” She toys with the words, and Illya clamps his mouth shut once more before giving in and nodding at her words.

“Gaby is —” Illya struggles for a moment and then moves to tie Gaby’s sundress back around her shoulders. He twists the thin strings into a delicate bow and lets his hand linger on her sunkissed skin, calloused palms brushing over the exposed part of her shoulder. “What she says is true.”

“Is it now?” Napoleon drops his hand for a moment, covering Illya’s and Gaby’s both with his thumb stroking down onto her shoulder, “Aren’t I, ah —what did you call me? A fox?”

“You are, but he is the better husband.” Gaby laughs and tugs off her golden ring. She holds it up, the glass diamond in it sparkles too much for her liking, it’s loud and gaudy like everything in Napoleon’s world. Illya reaches over her shoulder and plucks it from her fingers, dropping it in the drink Napoleon made her. 

“That was my grandmother’s,” Napoleon lies with mock shock, southern accent too thick. His silver tongue does him no good with Illya and Gaby. She smacks his bare chest and lets her fingers linger there, gently stroking down the thick patch of dark hair and following it to the trail that dips below his navel and vanishes into his dress slacks. 

“Come on darling.” Gaby flutters her thick lashes. “Come inside with us.” 

“Gaby,” Illya warns quietly but she turns to face him, hands fisting in his shirt. She leans up on the tips of her toes and without warning, pulls him in for a kiss. It’s a good slow kiss that has the tension in his shoulders slowly ebbing away.

“Let him in,” she murmurs softly against his mouth. “He’s already seen us. We need to see him.” She strokes the wrinkles out of his shirt and coaxes him into another kiss. Illya draws his mouth away and presses his forehead to hers, closing his eyes against her as he gives in.

“Fine, but he is not to touch you,” Illya mutters, and Gaby laughs despite him. 

“Hear that Napoleon?” 

“I heard, I just don’t think that’s happening.” Napoleon gives her a charming grin.

Gaby reaches for him, tugging him into the hotel room with her through the open balcony doors. 

The three of them move slowly and awkwardly at first. Illya lingering in the room while Gaby circles him slow and steady. She stands up on the tips of her toes and follows his fingers along the front of his shirt, undoing his buttons. She pushes the shirt over his shoulders and marvels at the sight of him, fingertips tracing the thick scars he’s acquired over the years. 

“Aren’t you going to help me?” Napoleon asks as he toys with his belt.

“Napoleon,” Gaby hums softly, not taking her gaze off of Illya. “Take off your own clothes.” 

She smiles up at Illya and circles him once more, pressing a palm onto his flat stomach, fingers tracing the lines of his muscles before pressing a kiss to the center of his back. Gaby lingers behind him while Napoleon loses his clothes, the rustle of clothing is the only sound in the room as Illya holds his breath and Gaby loses hers at the sight of the American. 

“Tch, Cowboy.” Illya draws his gaze lower, eyeing the slope of the American’s well designed physique all the way to the dip in the vee at his hips. His blue eyes go a little wide and then he glances up, over his shoulder to Gaby who is dragging her teeth over his bicep. “Why are you…?” 

He trails off, and Gaby pulls her lips back from Illya’s shoulder, baring her teeth for just a second before her lips go slack. She follows Illya’s gaze down and steps around him. She closes the space between and wraps her fingers around Napoleon’s cock just to hear him gasp. Her thumb slips over the head and she smirks for a moment as her words trail off. 

“Well, I never…” 

“Never what?” Napoleon throws back his head when her lips press into the column of his throat. He swallows heavily, resisting the urge to grab at her. They’ve warned him once already, he’s not to touch her yet unless he wants a lesson from Illya in manners. Her thumb goes lower and he lets out a little strangled sound.

“Your…” Illya flushes, at a loss for words, so it’s Gaby who saves him from blushing like a school boy. 

“Your cock is cut.” She licks a trail down to his collarbone and presses her lips just above his right pectoral muscle. Both of Napoleon’s brows go up and he drags his attention to Illya who is staring at him still as Gaby strokes her fingers over him with a light squeeze that makes his stomach tighten. His fingers twitch when she presses the flat of her tongue to his nipple.

“Am I your first?” Napoleon’s voice is low and playful as he thrusts forward into Gaby’s calloused hand. 

“You are. What’s the benefit?” Gaby asks against his chest, her warm breath sends a shiver down his spine and he moves a hand up to touch the top of her crown but Illya clears his throat and he stops himself. 

“Benefit?” Napoleon asks with a soft hiss of disbelief. 

Illya nods and infiltrates the space a little more, his hand settles on the small of Gaby’s back and then trails north, rough fingers playing with the bumps of her spine, tangling in the soft curls of her dark hair. Gaby hums softly to him, dragging her lips from Napoleon’s nipple to the front of his sternum, pressing a kiss on the dead center of his chest, feeling the heavy beating of his heart against her lips. Her hand tightens around his cock and she draws out the strokes in an agonizing pace that makes his mouth go slack. 

Gaby grins against his skin and gives him another squeeze, “You know, why do they…?” She makes a motion and closes two fingers around his cock almost like a makeshift set of scissors. 

Napoleon’s heart skips a beat before he clears his throat. “Ah, Fraulein.” He teases her, moving his hand to covers hers to smooth out her fingers. “Because it’s cleaner. Or at least I’m sure that’s what the doctors told my mother.” Napoleon shrugs. “I have no qualms about it.”

“Cleaner? You should just not sleep with anything that possess legs.” Illya scoffs as he drops his head down to Gaby’s shoulder, peppering kisses up along the column of her throat before he presses her closer to Napoleon and catches the American’s bottom lip with his teeth. 

Illya’s kiss is nothing like he expected. 

The first nip is rough, but the rest of the kiss is warm and slow. His lips are plush and, as far as first kisses go, Illya does not disappoint. Napoleon’s free hand comes up and he hooks it around Illya’s neck, dragging the Russian in closer. Gaby gives a soft sound from between them, slowly sinking down to her knees. Her lips press along Napoleon’s stomach, tongue dragging a circle around his navel just before she finds the head of his cock, hard and weeping. She flicks the tip of her tongue over him, and he gasps. Illya’s tongue takes advantage of him and their kiss becomes something more than a delicate experiment. 

Gaby pulls back and smacks her lips. “I can’t tell a difference. I guess you’re going to have to show me,” she plays innocently, looking up between the two men through thick lashes and a dimpled smile. “The both of you that is.” 

Illya groans quietly, pulls away from Napoleon, dragging his lips down the American’s jawline. He peppers a trail along the slope of Napoleon’s shoulder before pulling away, head down to Gaby who is already slipping a hand up the seam of his dress slacks. Her palm covers him and she draws a line down the line of his cock and watches the color flood his cheeks. Illya’s breathing goes shallow, chest rising and falling in quick successions. She makes quick work of his belt, listening to the clattering of metal on the floor before she plays with the teeth of the zipper. Her thumb flicks back and forth over the metal tab and she dares a glance up at him before dragging it down. The sound that falls from his mouth feeds her ego. Gaby mouths over the tent in his pants, soaking the fabric with the tip of her tongue. His fingers tapping along Napoleon’s arms, and he resists the urge to drive his hips forward. Illya’s hands fall into her hair, fingers curling in the soft tresses before he gently pulls her back, tilting her head up.

“What are you doing?” He glances down at her with the edges of his lips twitching up into one of those rare soft smiles he reserves for her and only her. She licks over her bottom lip slowly, dragging her tongue over to the corner of her mouth. He expects her to say, ‘getting lost.’ 

“Measuring,” she hums with amusement causing Napoleon to tilt his head back and laugh.

“Darling — ” He strokes the back of her head gently, reaching over her to slip his hand along the seam of Illya’s pants. “It’s not the size, it’s how you use it.”

Illya scoffs. “How very American of you. Worried you don’t measure up Cowboy?” 

“Care to make a wager?” Napoleon challenges softly, his fingers slipping lower until Gaby stops him. She snatches at him, digging her nails into his wrist and shaking her head.

“You two are supposed to be taking care of me,” she growls with a sharp voice. “I’m supposed to be the judge here.”

Illya looks over to Napoleon who mutters an apology to the mechanic when she finally lets the pressure off of his wrist. Napoleon moves both hands down and hooks them under her arm and hauls her up against his chest, hand moving down to splay over the front of her dress. His palm pressing hard over the span of her belly, wrinkling her dress. 

“You are not to touch —” Illya starts but Gaby cuts him off, turning her head back and licking at the underside of Napoleon’s jaw, tasting the clean sweat and salt of his skin. 

“Let him.” She hums softly when he pulls up the edge of her dress, showing her off to Illya as the tips of his fingers draw circles over the black cut of her underwear. She widens her stance, giving Illya a better view as Napoleon tugs along the fabric of her panties pushing them partially down her thighs. Gaby moans and Illya swallows hard before dropping to his knees, ready for church between her dancer’s legs. He moves his hands up along the slope of her calves and tracing a line to her underwear, dragging them the rest of the way down leaving them on the floor with his belt. 

“Enjoying the view, Peril?” Napoleon hums dropping his head down to press a kiss to Gaby’s lips. She moans against his mouth, tongue tapping his own in a playful chase as his hand dipping between her legs, his thieving fingers tracing slow circles before he pulls her open, exposing her to cool air just before Illya’s tongue sinks into her. She gasps, breaking their kiss and twisting back against Napoleon before Illya’s hands grip onto her hips, pinning her in place as Illya makes no secret of how she tasted. His groans sink into her skin as his tongue moves in slow motions along her sensitive cunt. Gaby nipped at Napoleon’s bottom lip, making helpless little cries against him as Illya drove her higher against his chest. Illya nibbled at Napoleon’s finger, letting him draw a circle around her clit before pressing the flat of his tongue over the same place. She squirmed and hooked a leg over the Russian’s shoulder as her hands reached back and sank into Napoleon’s dark hair. She pulled at his curls and twisted them around her knuckles as Illya chased her back, his cock dragging a wet line over her flank. 

“I-Illya,” she gasped out his name and twisted once more, moaning as Napoleon nudged her head aside, his nose dragging a line down her cheek before he attacked her neck with a well placed bite. Gaby yelped, her fingers tightening in his hair, “Napoleon!” 

Shouting Napoleon’s name only drove Illya on, his hands flexed against her thighs and he raised up another inch, driving his tongue deeper into her. Napoleon’s hands turned into a vice, holding her as she shuddered against him. Illya chases her release with another swipe of his tongue, letting her sag down against Napoleon with twitching thighs and a guttural moan. 

She sank back into Napoleon as he pressed a soft kiss over the bite he had given her as she unwound her fingers from his hair as Illya let her leg down, “Point to Illya.”

“Points?” Illya muttered softly as he pushed the edges of her dress up, handing it off to Napoleon as he peppered kisses across the span of her hips, leaving behind a wet trail. 

“Mm, so we know who is better.” She toyed softly as Napoleon gently set her down and pulled up the edges of her dress, slipping it off and tossing it to the floor. Illya gripped onto her hips and turned her around. He took his time, dragging his fingers over the curve of her rear as Napoleon dropped kisses to her collarbone. 

 

“Peril has an unfair advantage.” Napoleon murmurs along her skin as he sucks a bruise on the curve of her slight breast. She hums softly and wraps both of her arms around Napoleon’s chest, splaying her hands along the muscle lines of his back. She traced the bumps in his spine and walked her fingers down to the small of his back where she played with the dimples there. He hummed against her chest and dropped his lips lower. He mouthed along the edge of her bra before unhooking it with quick fingers. He dropped the piece of lingerie on Illya’s head and captured a hardened nipple between his swollen lips. Gaby hummed and tilted her head back as Illya tossed her bra to the floor. He went back to mapping out her backside, dipping his fingers between her legs and pressing kisses above the swell of her ass. 

“Unfair how?” She swallows down a moan as Napoleon scrapes his teeth between the valley of her breasts and nips at the underside of them. 

“You two have been sleeping together for months.” 

Illya froze and Gaby made a soft little sound, like a child caught with her fingers in the cookie jar. 

“How did you…?” Illya’s breath slipped across the small of Gaby’s back, causing her skin to prick with goose flesh. 

“You two are excellent spies.” Napoleon exhales before turning his head up and catching the corner of Gaby’s lips in a soft kiss that is so chaste she may laugh at his romancing. He smirks against her skin there, “However, you are terrible at being subtle.” 

Gaby turns her head down, “You have been listening haven’t you? I knew that bug wasn’t Russian.” 

She gives him a sly smirk and he answers her with a kiss before dragging a hand down between her legs, swiping over Illya’s fingers and dipping into her wet folds making her gasp, “Listening and Peril has a slight affliction for fine lingerie. They keep ending up in his dry cleaning.”

It’s Illya’s turn to make a sound and Gaby laughs before turning her head into Napoleon’s neck, “Jealous? Would you like to take home a pair?”

“I would rather have you.” He growls softly against the crown of her hair and pulls her out of Illya’s grip, picking her up and dropping her on the edge of the bed. Napoleon makes himself at home between her legs, his hips fitting perfectly against her own before he looks over his shoulder to Illya, “Both of you.”

“Good, because we are a pair you know.” Gaby pokes at his chest as he presses his palms onto her hips and digs his fingers into her fleshy thighs. 

“But this is a competition my dear,” Napoleon draws the head of his cock between her legs, tracing the line of her cunt with slow strokes making her squirm. Her stomach jumps under his attention, muscles twitching as she arches her hips up as if to draw him in.

“Yes,” Illya stands now and moves behind them, locking Gaby’s legs around Napoleon’s back, pausing to trace his spine just as Gaby had. Napoleon shivers and Illya pushes on his shoulder blades with a heavy palm, “So get to losing Cowboy.” 

“Patience,” Napoleon hums and Gaby groans as he carefully drags the head of his cock between her legs once more. 

“I hate that word.” She grounds out softly and arches her hips once more as she turns her head back against the mattress, snarling her hair and sinking her teeth into her bottom lip. She squirms just to feel him against her, circumcised cock and all.

Napoleon takes a mental picture of her here and now, warm skin with a pink flush, heaving chest and a desperate look on those delicate features - he finds himself wanting to sink into her, wanting to bury himself at home between those dancer’s legs and leave a wet trail between her thighs. He licks his lips and keeps his thoughts to himself as he draws a hand lower and presses her leg higher and dips his hips down. She hisses and he has to restrain himself from falling into a school boy routine of bottoming out here and now. 

Gaby curses and he gives her a charming smile that she smacks away with an open palm on his handsome face. This draws a real smile out of Illya who moves around the edge of the bed, slipping his slacks off and folding them neatly. The mattress dipped under his weight and he moved close to Gaby, stroking his fingers in lazy circles across the lines of her collarbone. 

“Cowboy is just drawing it out because he knows he is going to lose,” Illya muses and leans down. His lips find Gaby’s and they kiss in a sweet moment that Napoleon wants to sour. So he does, snapping his hips forward and burying himself in Gaby. She pulls away from Illya and moans, hands seeking for the American. She grips onto Napoleon’s arms and digs her nails in, gasping as he pulls back. He is slow and deliberate with his movements, leaving her near empty before rocking into her once more. Napoleon Solo makes sex an art. Every gasp, every kiss, is well thought out, placed in an order meant to undo her. Gaby falls victim to him just like a rare painting in a famous museum. He wraps his arms around her middle and pulls her hips higher, pressing her harder into the bed. She swallows a frustrated moan as Illya drags his palm over her breasts, thumb swiping over her nipple. Napoleon gives her what she wants though, another hard thrust and a calloused finger between her legs. He rolls a steady pressure over her clit and snaps his hips forward once more. A shudder ripples across his back and he squeezes his eyes shut as he sets a hard pace, pressing harder into her and losing himself in the tight heat of her. Gaby curses him again and Napoleon grins.

“Filthy mouth for a pretty mechanic.” He pants softly and she bares her teeth at him, urging him on with a foot digging into the small of his back, urging him on. 

“Keep going.” She sucks in a sharp breath, swallowing down a cry as he leans down and lays a well placed kiss in the valley of her breasts, his tongue darting out to swipe at the thin layer of sweat that clings to her warm skin. She tastes of tanning oil, warm honey, and clean sweat. He drags the flat of his tongue lower, making her gasp as he rolls his hips into hers once more, slowing down, dragging his cock out just to make her whimper before rocking back into her. He wavers in pace, losing himself in the feel of her as Illya’s hand curls in his hair and drags his head up. The Russian kisses him hard and Napoleon loses himself, pulling out and spilling onto her stomach. Gaby groans under him, “I’m taking points away from Illya.”

Illya breaks the kiss with Napoleon, biting his lip hard before dragging his gaze down to Gaby, “Why should I suffer because Cowboy can’t control himself?” 

“Because you distracted him.” She drags her hand down to her stomach and presses her index finger into the white mess Napoleon has left behind. It sticks to her fingers and she pulls them up idly, dipping them into her warm mouth. 

Napoleon’s eyes roll back and he groans, “God.” It leaves him like a curse. His arms are shaking as he holds himself over her, “Filthy mouth.” 

She drags her tongue back over her finger and smirks at him. “The score is still zero to zero.”

Napoleon pulls himself away, hands lingering on her knees as he untangles himself. “Zero? After all that?” 

“Like I said, Illya distracted you. I didn’t get to…” She trails off and gestures at the mess on her belly. 

Illya smirks and leans back over Gaby, slanting his lips over hers for a moment as he plants a kiss on her, “I will gain my lost point back.” His accent is warm and heavy on her lips, and Gaby smirks.

“You think so?” she asks as Napoleon pulls away from her.

“If you give me another ten minutes I can earn more points,” the American calls out, crass as ever. Illya shoos him off with a wave of his hand and goes back to kissing her. He presses his palm along her warm cheek and then traces a path down the column of her throat. She’s so lost in Illya’s kisses she doesn’t hear the water running on Napoleon coming back until something warm and wet touches her belly. She jerks softly, a sound of surprise leaving her as Napoleon wipes away the mess and Illya pulls her up higher onto the bed. 

He plants himself back against headboard and draws Gaby onto his lap, her knees on either side of his thighs, dipping into the mattress and making the springs squeak. He lets his fingers span along her back, taps them along the slope of her spine and draws her down for another warm kiss. Gaby’s hands are down on his chest. She maps him out like he does her, always searching across the heat of his skin for the newest scar to kiss. Her fingers drift lower between them where he’s naked and uncut, hard against the cradle of her hips.

She wraps her hand around him and thumbs over the sensitive head of his cock just to listen to him stutter. Gaby loves to make the KGB’s finest a mess of warm and worn muscles. Her fingers tighten over him and she gives him a slow pump of her hand, back and forth with a gentle squeeze. His breath quickens and she pulls her hand up just to lick her palm, plunging it back between them and giving him another brusque tug. A moan falls from his lips and he shivers, giving an involuntary jerk of his hips up into her hand. 

Illya is a tactician though, never letting her gain the upper hand. He knows all her dips and curves from countless nights of running off together, dodging their responsibilities for a roll in expensive hotel sheets. When she breaks the kiss he goes for her throat, peppering kisses down until he can’t reach anymore and when he can’t reach he lifts her higher breaking her contact on his sensitive skin. Gaby’s hands end up on the wall with her palms spread wide and her knees touching his shoulder. He laps back between her thighs and draws her close again. He doesn’t seem to mind the mess that slips across his lips and cheeks, down his jaw and throat. Gaby moans at the idea of kissing him while he’s covered in not just her slick but Napoleon’s as well. Her thighs tremble and he stops toying with her, long strokes turning short and just before she falls, he pulls away. Gaby curses him, voice ragged with heaving breathes and the frustration he’s strung across her nerves. 

“Patience,” He tries and she swats at him, hand mussing his golden hair. She twists her fingers in it and pulls his head up, kisses him with the taste of herself on his mouth and moans. Illya uses his strength to lower her back down, breaking their kiss and turning her over. He presses her knees onto the mattress and draws her back into his chest once more. Her eyes land on Napoleon who is still kneeling at the end of the bed, looking flushed with wide eyes and parted lips. 

Illya presses his hands onto her hips and he drags her back onto him, making her sit in his lap with her back to his chest, filling her in one fatal thrust. The angle makes her gasp. The friction between them is almost too much. He’s hot and thick against her, dragging across her nerves and making her squirm against him. Gaby’s calloused hands fall onto Illya’s legs and she spreads her hands out, keeping her dark head up to watch as Napoleon strokes himself back to a half-hard state. A shudder races along her spine as Illya pulls her back into him, thrusting deeper. She’s still hot from Napoleon and wet from Illya’s tongue and she holds onto him like a vice grip. He plants his feet down and drives his hips up once more, harder — deeper. Gaby almost loses purchase on his legs. Napoleon moves forward and pulls her up a bit more, kisses her until she’s pulling away to moan as Illya’s fingers slip between her legs. 

The Russian works her over, presses all her favorite buttons until she’s a wild mess of swollen lips and broken German. Napoleon pinches one of her nipples and Illya thrusts up, pulling her down to meet him. Gaby loses herself there on the spot. She shouts something in her native tongue and it sounds like a half-sob as she leans into Napoleon’s chest as Illya grips tighter onto her hips. He pulls her back and works her through her orgasm with slow measured thrusts. Napoleon reaches up and brushes her sweat-slicked bangs back, and she turns her head up catching his thumb with her lips, flicking her tongue over the appendage before moaning as Illya pulls her back, this time pulling her away from Napoleon. 

He hooks his arm across her chest and draws her back into him. She grinds her hips back into his own, rocking back against him with a slow and steady rhythm that leaves him a stuttering mess. His mouth finds hers. Gaby bites his bottom lip and chases him with a sharp order, rudimentary Russian leaving her lips as she orders him to finish. 

Illya doesn’t disappoint. He drags her down and holds her against him as he drives himself up into her. Gaby draws a roar from him. Illya locks his arms around her hips and spills into her, messy and unplanned. Gaby gasps but he soothes away her nerves, planting kisses along her shoulder and down the back of her arm. 

“Illya,” She hums softly, catching her breath once more as she falls back into his chest. He shifts carefully, pulling out of her as Napoleon passes him the warm towel. Illya takes care with her, slowly dragging the cloth along her warm thighs and pressing delicate kisses to her naked back as he shifts her down along the covers, letting her stretch out like a lazy feline. 

“I guess Peril won?” Napoleon speaks up, he’s hard again with his fingers still wrapped around his cock, still watching them. Gaby licks over her lips and raised both brows to him as Illya tosses the damp cloth aside.

“Yes, I won.” He’s almost proud about it, chest puffing out and sly smirk on his lips. Gaby scoffs and slides away from his outstretched hands. She instead crawls across the mattress, hands pressing down onto the mattress just along the dips of Napoleon’s knees.

“No,” she answers, and Illya gapes just as she drags her tongue over Napoleon’s cock. He hisses and she draws him further into her mouth. Slowly working him until he’s touching the back of her throat and his hands are forming fists, knuckles going bloodless. Gaby imitates swallowing, tongue working around him and he loses himself in a matter of seconds, hips jerking forward as he comes along the hot velvet of her tongue. 

Gaby swallows and Illya curses low, ignoring the twitch in his cock as he watches her wipe at her lips with the back of her hand, careless and modern. She is insatiable and proud, stretching out to pull Napoleon on the bed with them. She rolls between the two of them, fitting herself into their broken pieces like a long-lost puzzle piece.

“If Peril didn’t win, did I?” Napoleon asks teasingly as he curls a finger in her soft hair.

Gaby shakes her head gently, drawing her fingers along Illya’s chest as she settles in for the afternoon, ready for a short nap, “Don’t be silly, no,” she answers, and Illya scoffs.

“Tie? Ties are not issued in my country. There are no ties.” 

She rolls her eyes. “I think it’s pretty clear boys — I’ve won. Both of you are nothing without me.” 

A moment of silence ticks by and then Napoleon laughs. Illya sighs and shakes his head but Napoleon’s laugh eventually fills the room, shifting the competition to nothing but a distant warm daydream brought on by the heat of the summer. 

Gaby kisses Napoleon next and then turns to do the same with Illya, they’re soft kisses with something kin to love pressed into them. Napoleon settles into the feeling of it and something wrenches in his chest, a new sensation that reminds him of what it’s like to steal something too pretty for the public’s eye. He turns into Gaby’s warm fingers and falls victim to the crook of her neck where he lets himself lay, soaking in the feel of her and Illya in their marital bed for the weekend. 

Somehow they fit with a thin sheet pulled over them and the balcony doors open as the sun slowly falls back, sinking away and trading places with the moon. Dusk settles in and Illya wakes with Gaby legs tangled into his own and her cheek plastered to Napoleon’s chest, sound asleep with the rise and fall of the American’s breathing. Napoleon however, is wide awake. His hand is tangled in Gaby’s hair and his foot is on Illya’s stroking softly with the tips of his toes, slow, soothing motions. 

Illya presses his index finger to his lips, indicating for them to keep quiet. It’s rare for Gaby to sleep so freely and they both know it. So they settle in the bed for a little bit longer, the three of them tangled up with no signs of undoing. Their plane doesn’t come until Tuesday and judging by the clock on the small table next to the bed, they have several more hours of sleep left.

**Author's Note:**

> Alright so I started this fic back in January and dropped it, picked it up again -- attempted to write it again, put it down again. Either way I'm happy I picked it back up. I want to thank Blueincandescence for her hard work in beta'ing my writing. It's a mess and she is a goddess among mortals for helping me shape this mess into something worth reading. Also, sorry, not sorry for 6k of smut.


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